
Class _ESi5JS 

Bnni r 4-4-1 Jj Co 
GopighfN" '^'0 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 






UNDER A FOOL'S CAP 



Nine hundred copies of this book have 
been printed on Van Gelder hand- 
made paper and the type distributed. 



UNDER A FOQL-S CAP : SONGS 
By Daniel Henry Holmes 




PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MO S HER 
AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT 
XLV EXCHANGE STREET 
PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCX 






COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS B MOSHER 

1910 



©G!.A273r,79 









s* Olden friends, though dressed anew, 

i Goslings of that Dean of Mothers, 

Trimmed and combed, — still, it is true, 
Olden friends, though dressed anew ; 
Here I dedicate to you. 
Oh my Sister-geese . . . and brothers ! 
Olden friefids, though dressed anew. 
Goslings of that Dean of Mothers I 



CONTENTS 









PAGE 


Dedication 


. 


V 


Foreword 


. 


xi 


Under a Fool's Cap : 






I 


KING COLE 


. 


3 


II 


VIOLET 'S BLUE . 




. 


6 


III 


WILLY WINKIE . 






9 


IV 


BELL HORSES . 




. 


13 


V 


MY lady's GARDEN 




. 


16 


VI 


BURNIE BEE 




. 


19 


VII 


DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY 






23 


VIII 


COCK-A-DOODLE-DO 




. 


26 


IX 


HIGH-DIDDLE-DIDDLE 




30 


X 


THE BEGGARS COME TO TOWN . 


34 


XI 


BANBURY CROSS 




37 


XII 


BOBBY SHAFTO . 




40 


XIII 


LITTLE BLUE BETTY . 




42 


XIV 


TURN, CHEESES, TURN 




45 


XV 


JUMPING JOAN . 




48 


XVI 


THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL 


51 


XVII 


MY LITTLE WIFE 


. 


. 


54 



CONTENTS 



XVIII HUMPTY-DUMPTY . . . 56 

XIX LITTLE BOY BLUE . . . 58 

XX MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, AND JOHN 6 1 

XXI MARGERY DAW . . . . 65 

XXII CURLY-LOCKS .... 68 

XXIII THE OLD MAN IN LEATHER . 7 1 

XXIV baa! baa! BLACK SHEEP . . 76 

Epilogue 79 

"Under a Fool's Cap" . . . S^ 
by norman roe 



Bibliographical Note ... 99 



FOREWORD 



Her songs are only moftotonous songs, 
Dead of Uine and of faded glories ; 

Her tales are worn with much telling, and gray 
With dust of the years that have crnmbled away 
But ah ! hozv the heart of her lover longs 
For the oldest songs and stories ; 

As, groping and halt, her voice totters along. 
Half forgets ajid half remembers. 

As the dear blind guide goes feeling her zuay 
The dreary To-day is no longer To-day, 
For his dead are alive again in the song. 
And come out to him from the embers. 

Ah 1 laugh who will, that he sits apart, 
By the hour, this graybeard lover ; 

When a man has lived a lifelong through 
In the newest song, there is nothing new. 
And olden songs go best to the heart. 
As Dame Darkness sings them over. 

From A Pedlar's Pack. 



FOREWORD 



ONE of the beatitudes of the book-lover is 
that unexpected association of ideas de- 
veloped at the merely casual opening of a 
magazine or the pages, even, of a newspaper 
of the day. Sometimes it is a correspondent 
out of a quiet little town on the Canadian 
border, as in the present instance, who gives 
the first intimation which followed up leads on 
to fortunate discovery. Those of us familiar 
with Aldrich's exquisitely etched lyric will re- 
call the chance turning of a spade which 
revealed what earth had held for centuries, 
whereof the final word is this : 

" O nameless brother ! see hcnv Time, 
Your gracious handiwork has guarded : 
See how your loving, patient art 
Has come, at last, to be rewarded. 

Who would not suffer slights of meti, 
And pangs of hopeless passion also, 
To have his carve^t agate-stone 
On such a bosom, rise and fall so !" 
xi 



FOREWORD 



True, our " find " was not a little helmeted 
Minerva but it was " a jewel fresh as any blos- 
som," and similes should never be pressed too 
far ! In Mr. Norman Roe's article we seemed, 
however, to reclaim some portion of poignantly 
remembered youth — " the past came back 
with all its old persistence." Later on, when 
the book reached us from London, our shadowy 
presentiment was amply fulfilled. Once upon 
a time we had seen the volume, — once upon a 
time possessed it, — but we were still in the 
dark as to author and place of publication. 
Finally, to make a long story short, our good 
friend, Mr. Davis L. James of Cincinnati, 
Ohio, — a bookseller both of the old school 
and of the new, — supplied the connecting 
link in what was at best a slender chain of 
bibliographic ratiocination. Mr. James not 
only procured a second copy of the rare little 
volume but gave definite information as to its 
origin and authorship. 

From facts thus derived and other reliable 
sources we now know that Daniel Henry 



FOREWORD 



Holmes, Junior, born July 16, 1851, in New 
York City, was the author of Under a FooVs 
Cap. During his father's lifetime he whimsi- 
cally called himself Daniel Henry Junior 
Holmes and still further complicated our 
means of identification when, in 1884, he signed 
his verses " Daniel Henry, Jun." On the 
mother's side there was English blood which 
may account for the issue of this first book in 
London. In 1856, Daniel Henry Holmes, 
Senior, who sympathized warmly with the 
South, took his family abroad and educated 
the children in France. Eight years in Tours 
and four years at the Lycee Bonaparte in 
Paris brought" Junior" to the age of sixteen 
when he was sent to Manchester, England, to 
be trained for a mercantile career. The life 
of a merchant, however, was soon given up. 
The next year another attempt was made to 
have him enter his father's business in New 
Orleans. He finally decided against commer- 
cialism in any shape and went to Cincinnati to 
study law which, after his graduation when 



kiv FOREWORD 

twenty-one, he practiced in a desultory way 
for some considerable time. 

In 1 89 1, Mr. Holmes visited Europe, spend- 
ing more of his time abroad than in America, 
and pursuing his own special studies in Greek, 
Latin, Italian, counterpoint and harmony. 
Returning, in 1904, to Holmesdale, the family 
residence, just across the river in Covington, 
Kentucky, near Cincinnati, yet south of the 
Mason and Dixon Une, his last years were 
given up to arranging a large and carefully 
chosen library, composing music, and writing 
as the mood of composition came to him. The 
poet's life as indicated by these outhnes was 
one of continued ease, and in the happiest of 
households, surrounded by his family and by 
intimate and devoted friends, he came to that 
great mystery which lies in wait for all. His 
death occurred suddenly at Hot Springs, Vir- 
ginia, December 14, 1908. 

As a cultivated musician and a collector of 
things beautiful his associates remember him. 
It is safe to assume that the hospitality of this 



FOREWORD 



southern gentleman was most charming. In- 
deed, from every side the personality of Daniel 
Henry Holmes proves a fascinating one. His 
keen sense of humour, his odd fancies and 
very real interest in other lives that touched 
his own, made him an unrivalled companion. 
Possessed of all that went to the making of a 
successful career, what else shall we say save 
that for those he left behind not one of them 
all can ever forget the man or the poet in the 
man. In later years, writing comparatively 
little as authorship is measured nowadays, but 
an incessant reader, finding joy as we may be- 
lieve that comes of calm, do we not possess all 
that need be set forth concerning the author of 
Under a FooVs Cap ? His outlook upon life 
at this period could be summed up in a qua- 
train which himself and not another might 
have written in some still hour of introspection : 

" From quiet home and first begmning 
Out to the undiscovered ends, 
There V nothing worth the wear of winning 
But laughter, and the love of friends.^'' 



FOREWORD 



One vital point of interest should be re- 
stated : the man who took these old tags of 
nursery rhymes and fashioned out of them 
some of the tenderest lyrics ever written was 
an American by birth and in the doing of 
this unique thing did it perfectly. That he 
never repeated these first fine careless raptures 
is nothing to his discredit. That he did ac- 
complish what he set himself to do with an 
originality and a proper regard to the quality 
of his work rather than its quantity is the 
essential fact ; and in his ability to touch a 
vibrating chord in the hearts of all who have 
come across these lyrics we feel that the mis- 
sion of Daniel Henry Holmes was fulfilled 
both in letter and in spirit. 

T. B. M. 



UNDER A FOOL'S CAP 



KING COLE 



(§lh Kttti) (Halt vans a iollg olh amd» 

A |0Ug nl& aoul juaa Ij? : 
If? ralUJi fnr Ijia jitpf anJi ly? raU?& far Ijia bnwl. 

Anil I?? ralleJi fnr tjia fiJiInUra tlyr^f . 



HIS day was done, and the sands had run 
Through the measuring glass so long, 
That now there was left to his setting sun, 
But a pipe, and a bowl, and a song. 

But while the wine holds out to shine, 

The pipe holds out to burn, 
Why should a wise old graybeard pine ? 

A fond old dreamer yearn ? 

So, day growing dim, he filled to the brim 

His pipe, and his bowl also, 
And bade his fiddlers three play to him 

The burdens of Long-ago, 



KING COLE 



That their spell may lift, through the purple drift 
Of the smoke, and the fire of the wine, 

The long-dead Past in its burial-shift, 
Like a ghost at a wizard's sign. 

Then his fiddlers three made melody 

So strange and potent of spell. 
That the darkness grew as a peopled sea 

With the shadows, once loved so well, 

And the whole vast Yore uprose once more 

On its world-wide phantom wings, 
And drifted past, to the magic lore 

That wept from the viol-strings. 

First, the battle-field, where two armies reeled, 
Under flashing and clashing of swords. 

Then, the huge grim hall, where on lifted shield, 
A boy-king was hailed by the Lords : 

The postern gate, where he used to wait. 

For the sweetheart — oftentimes — 
Then the darkened church where she came in state 

At the call of the wedding chimes. 



KING COLE 



Every scene and place — every form and face — 
Which the past in its glory had used, 

Rolled on, in a pageant of stately pace. 
Before King Cole, as he mused. 

So the music sped, as the hours fell dead 

In the ebb of the ghostly stream, 
While the king sat wagging his wise white head 

And smiled and sighed at his dream. 

And there seemed to rise weird signals and cries 

From the serried ranks and dim. 
As though dumb throats and blinded eyes 

Were beckoning to him. 

At last the old sweet songs were told, 

The ash in the pipe turned white, 
The emptied beaker slipped from his hold, 

And the dream sank back into night. 

The fiddlers rose, and lay down their bows, 
They knew they had played their last : 

King Cole lay back, and his eyes were close. 
He had followed after the Past. 



VIOLET'S BLUE 



Y 



Wljf tt 3 am king — BilihU, UhhU ! 
^n« »I|aU bf quf ?«. 



OU shall have crown — Diddle, diddle 1 
Jewels and gold, 



Damasks and lace — Diddle, diddle ! 
Centuries old. 

Pages behind — Diddle, diddle ! 

Heralds before, 
And all the state — Diddle, diddle ! 

Queens had of yore. 

But when you 're queen — Diddle, diddle ! 

And I am king, 
Will your eyes shine — Diddle, diddle ! 

Will my lips sing, 

6 



VIOLET 'S BLUE 



As they do now — Diddle, diddle ! 

When we are still, 
Poor county-folk — Diddle, diddle ! 

Plain Jack and Jill ? 

Can our hearts beat — Diddle, diddle ! 

Our love unfold. 
Prisoned in pomp — Diddle, diddle ! 

Girdled with gold ? 

Love thrives alone — Diddle, diddle ! 

In open air ; 
Where pageants are — Diddle, diddle ! 

Love is not there. 

Where skies are blue — Diddle, diddle ! 

And fields are green, 
I will be king — Diddle, diddle ! 

You shall be queen. 

Queen of Day-Dreams — Diddle, diddle ! 

King of No-lands, 
With full-filled hearts — Diddle, diddle ! 

And empty hands. 



8 VIOLET'S BLUE 

Let others king — Diddle, diddle ! 

And queen, who will : 
We 're better so — Diddle, diddle ! 

Plain Jack and Jill. 



WILLY WINKIE 



Sittta l^rnuglj tljp town, 
H^iatatra nnh JumtttBtatra 

Jn I|ta mglitQomtt, 
©apping at llf? mtnJwm, 

P^rping at tlje lork : — 
" Ar? all tlje babt^a gott^ tn hth ? 

Jt 'a nam Un n'rlnrk ! " 

THEN when noises all are still, 
Lamps all burn low, 
Bolted doors and windows creak, 

Open — and tiptoe, 
With his lanthorn and his staff, 

Grimly night-gowned, 
Like a watchman of the Night 
Winkie goes his round. 

For of all the Angel guard, 

Time out of mind, 
He it is hath had in charge 

All Baby-kind, 



WILLY WINKIE 



From the mud-lark, fast asleep 

On bare curbstone, 
To the puppet, plump and pink, 

Heir to the throne. 

So when steeple clocks have tolled 

Sleep-time at hand, 
When mammas and nurses rub 

Eyes full of sand : 
Silver rattles all are hushed. 

Pink lids all furled, 
Winkie comes to oversee 

His little world. 

Ay ! but there is much to do 

For boys and girls : 
Wee bald heads to trim with floss, 

Empty mouths with pearls, 
Little pudding legs to mould 

Into human shapes ; 
General repairs besides : 

Scratches and scrapes. 



WILLY WINKIE 



There is much to teach likewise 

To girls and boys, 
How to caterwaul for pins, 

And crow for toys, 
How to clutch at pleasant beards 

Coming too close, 
How to neatly cram the mouth 

With fists and toes. 

Then reports to be received 

From baby friends, 
Litter'd all about the place 

In odds and ends, 
Rattles, rings and rag-dolls 

Cast on the shelves, 
Shoes and socks, that sulk because 

Left to themselves. 

Then if he make up his mind 

From what they tell, 
Baby, where its lines have fall'n, 

Is n't faring well. 



WILLY WINKIE 



Presto ! Wee wee Winkie 
Bends o'er the bed, 

Picks up Baby, and away ! 
Some think it dead : 



But the sly old watchman 

Winkie knows best, 
He has made for some bleak home 

With no baby bless'd. 
There he lays his charge to sleep, 

And with the morn. 
There is much to-do about 

Baby, New-born. 

Upstairs and down, he goes 

In his night-gown, 
Till the Day comes peeping 

Into the town ; 
Then he throws all shutters wide. 

Lets down the bars. . . . 
Goodnight, Watchman ! Off he flies 

To blow out the stars. 



BELL HORSES 



1il|at ttmr af iag ? 
— On? n'rlork T Sttin o'rlnrk ! 
Slljrw ! anJi amag. 



I SHALL wait by the gate 
To see you pass, 
Closely press'd, three abreast, 
Clanking with brass : 

With your smart red mail-cart 
Hard at your heels. 
Scarlet ground, fleck'd around 
With the Queen's seals. 

Up the hills, down the hills, 
Till the cart shrink 
To a faint dab of paint 
On the sky-brink, 



14 BELL HORSES 

Never stop till you drop 
On to the town, 
Bearing great news of state 
To Lords and Crown. 

And down deep in the keep 
Of your mail-cart, 
There 's a note that I wrote 
To my sweetheart. 

I had no words that glow, 

No penman's skill, 

And high-born maids would scorn 

SpeUing so ill ; 

But what if it be stiff 
Of hand and thought. 
And ink-blots mark the spots 
Where kisses caught. 

He will read without heed 
Of phrases' worth. 
That I love him above 
All things on earth. 



BELL HORSES 



I must wait here, till late 
Past Evensong, 

Ere you come tearing home — 
Days are so long ! — 

But I '11 watch, till I catch 
Your bells chime clear .... 
If you '11 bring me something ? 
Won't you please, dear ? 



MY LADY'S GARDEN 



l^oxtt hats mg IGahg'a garSi^n grmu ? 
I^nm hats jug ICaJJa'a garJi^it grnm ? 
3ittl? ailti?r faHlH, anJi rnrklf-Bljflb. 
AttJ» prrttg gtrlH all in a ram. 



A LL fresh and fair, as the spring is fair, 
•^^- And wholly unconscious they are so fair, 
With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep, 
And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air. 

They all have crowns and all have wings, 
Pale silver crowns and faint green wings, 
And each has a wand within her hand. 
And raiment about her that cleaves and chngs. 

But what have my Lady's girls to do ? 
What maiden toil or spinning to do ? 
They swing and sway the live-long day 
While beams and dreams shift to and fro. 

i6 



MY LADY'S GARDEN 



And are so still that one forgets, 
So calm and restful, one forgets 
To think it strange they never change, 
Mistaking them for Margarets. 

But when night comes and Earth is dumb, 
When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb. 
The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowze. 
For the time of their magic toil has come. 

They deck themselves in their bells and shells. 
Their silver bells and their cockle-shells. 
Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves 
And chaunting Runic hymns and spells, 

They spread their faint green wings abroad. 
Their wings and clinging robes abroad, 
And upward through the pathless blue 
They soar, like incense smoke, to God, 

Who gives them crystal dreams to hold. 
And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold, 
And laughter spun of beams of the sun. 
And tears that shine like molten gold. 



i8 MY LADY'S GARDEN 

And when their hands can hold no more, 
Their chaliced hands can hold no more, 
And when their bells, and cockle-shells, 
With holy gifts are brimming o'er. 

With swift glad wings they cleave the deep. 
As shafts of starlight cleave the deep, 
Through Space and Night they take their flight 
To where my Lady lies asleep; 

And there, they coil above her bed, — 
A fairy crown above her bed — 
While from their hands, like sifted sands, 
Falls their harvest winnowed. 

And this is why my Lady grows. 

My own sweet Lady daily grows. 

In sorcery such, that at her touch, 

Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose. 

And this is what the pretty girls do. 
This is the toil appointed to do. 
With silver bells, and cockle-shells, 
Like Margarets all in a row. 



BURNIE BEE 



M tl ht tn-mnrrnui iay 

uJak^ gaur utings and flg autag. 



GO prepare your honey-home 
For the wedding feast to come, 
If you needs must work : I say 
Take your wings and fly away. 

Let your quest be what it will, 
Be it love, or labour still, 
Get you hence, while yet you may, 
Take your wings and fly away. 

Do you see these Hstless flowers 
Dancing through the shining hours 
In a gracefully rhythmic play ? 
Take your wings and fly away. 



BURNIE BEE 



In their robes of gorgeous hues, 
From sharp reds to mellow blues, 
Like a ravell'd rainbow's spray ? 
Take your wings and fly away. 

With their girdled breasts of gold, 
And the jewels manifold 
Of their dancing-girl's array ? 
Take your wings and fly away. 

Fair are they beyond compare, 
Yet withal they are so fair, 
Death is not more dread than they ! 
Take your wings and fly away. 

In their wanton wealth of dyes. 
In their perfume-sated eyes, 
Strange spells sleep, and philtres stay ; 
Take your wings and fly away. 

He who ventures close to them, 
Though he touch but to the hem 
Of their garments as they sway — 
Take your wings and fly away. 



BURNIE BEE 



He will suddenly grow fain, 
Fever with a nameless pain, 
That no physic can allay, — 
Take your wings and fly away. 

All things fair will pall on him, 
All but their lithe stems grow dim, 
All but their buds pale and gray, — 
Take your wings and fly away. 

And his soul — fire-crown'd and shod — 
Will go sorrowing like a God 
Fallen from the stars astray — 
Take your wings and fly away. 

For these are the poison-flowers, 
Foster'd by the Demon-Powers : 
Art and Song, for Man's decay ! 
Take your wings and fly away. 

Those who know them, not again 
Shall they be as other men, 
Though they travail, though they pray, 
Take your wings and fly away. 



BURNIE BEE 



But shall bear the cursed gift, 
Without respite, without shift, 
Till they sleep beneath the clay, 
Take your wings and fly away. 

Burnie Bee ! Burnie Bee ! 
By your love, your bride to be, 
Listen to me, and obey : 
Take your wings and fly away. 



DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY 



Saffu-Ji0mtt-JiiUi| Ijaa ram? up to tnwtt, 
3n ly^r gr^^n prttiroat anh g^Uom gomtt, 

FROM the far-away South, 
Where endless Summer sleeps endless dreams, 
With her eyes and hair full of loose sunbeams, 
And a kiss on her mouth ; 

And lo ! she stands in the market-place, 

In the broil and babble, the trouble and chase 

Of all trades and degrees, 
— A poet's dream of the Bayadere — 
With her naked arms, and slender legs bare 

Up to the knees. 

The town is dreary, the town is dead, 
A pall of smoke coils about its head, 

And the day drags by, 
With pinch'd wan features and sullen trudge, 
A hopeless day, like a worn-out drudge 

That is trying to die. 



24 DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY 

Folk pass beside her, standing there, 

In their daily rounds, too cheerless to care 

For the child of Chance, 
Till Daffy-down-dilly suddenly trips 
Her tambourine over her finger-tips 

And begins to dance. 

Oh ! that dance ! the dance of the Fauns of old 1 
The swell and swerve, as the muscles unfold. 

Then the measures warm, 
As the limbs go mad, the pulses sting. 
Till the very soul spreads fiery wing, 

Astride the storm. 

About her the people come, by degrees 
Uncertain at first, then ill at ease. 

As the spell of her spreads. 
Till a sunbeam strikes like a sabre-flash, 
And turns to fire and gold the trash 

Of her gypsy-shreds. 

And then, her witchery reigns supreme : 
The streets flash white, the houses gleam 
While in maddening whirl, 



DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY 25 

From end to end of the market-place 
A frenzied chorus of dance keeps pace 
With the dancing-girl. 

And it seems as though Almighty Pan 
Had sudden blown in the nostrils of man 

His fiery breath of laughter : 
So Daffy-down-dilly came up to town, 
In her green petticoat and yellow gown, 

And April came after. 



COCK-A-DOODLE-DO 



Mg iamf tjaa lost ly^r aljof, 

ilg maatf r a Inat Ijta fibMf-attrk, 

Anh hant knnui iul|at to ha. 



THE red-eyed street-lamps glow, 
Like embers burning low, 
And ghastly dawn is breaking, thick 
With silence and falling snow. 

For miles and miles ahead. 
The streets, untrodden, spread, 
Bescatter'd as with ashes, for 
The Carnival is dead. 

Vague shadows, blurred of form, 
Hugg'd close, to keep them warm. 
With nodding heads and gait footsore. 
Go trudging through the storm. 
26 



COCK-A-DOODLE-DO 27 

Some, bundled to the nose 
In furs, and some half-froze 
Beneath their flimsy masquing-weeds 
And shivering silken hose ; 

By twos and threes, and some 
In single file, they come : 
A broken string of motley beads, 
All tangled out of plumb, 

All sorts of crosses and kins : 
Monks, monkeys, mandarins, 
Limp pantaloons, and towzled clowns, 
And batter'd harlequins. 

Tame goblins, sleepy sprites, 

Glum ladies, rueful knights. 

Pale slender angels in drabbled gowns, 

Plump devils in ravell'd tights : 

All races, and creeds, and climes, 

All costumes, masques, and mimes. 

In a broil of colour, untuned and unkey'd. 

Like the jingle of crazy chimes. 



28 COCK-A-DOODLE-DO 

And, arm in arm, God wot ! 
The sorriest of the lot, 
My master, as an old Volkslied, 
My dame, as a Gavotte. 

He, smock'd in brindle pelt, 
Cross-thong'd at legs with felt. 
With leathern hood, sharp'd to a peak. 
And cow-bells at his belt ; 

And she, all lace and gilt. 

O'er her bodice of damask quilt, 

While her red-clock'd stockings hide and seek 

Through the slits of her velvet kilt. 

But alas for their quips and pranks ! 
Against his lagging shanks. 
His fiddle, widow'd of its bow, 
Melancholically clanks, 

And she drags at his sleeve. 

Too sleepy to perceive 

That, somewhere in the slush and snow. 

Her slipper took French leave. 



COCK-A-DOODLE-DO 29 

Poor Carnival ! God speed ! 

None mourn thee now, none heed : 

When Song goes dumb, and Dance grows numb, 

It 's fasting-time indeed. 



HIGH-DIDDLE-DIDDLE 



Elcft rat plag'd tift fiJ»M?. 
(Bl^t torn ptm^j'Ji mm th[t moan, 

2Ii|p little ing la«glii'5 

®o Bff H«rl| rraft, 
AttJi lljp bis^ ran amag mitl| tl|e aponn. 



A' 



ND there never had been 
Such a mummery seen 
In the batter'd old circus tent, 
As there came then about, 
When the lights were put out. 
And the rush of the audience was spent. 

The full cast of the troupe. 

From the star to the " supe " 
The Clown-Dish and the Song-and-dance-Spoon, 

A trim hussy as Cat 

In jack-boots and cock'd-hat, 
And the red-headed maid of the Moon. 



HIGH-DIDDLE-DIDDLE 31 

The whole gang of them dress'd 

In their maddest and best, 
Hand in hand went careering around 

The professional ring 

Where a fire beat wing 
Like a monster bird struck to the ground ; 

While in stately masque, 

On an upended cask. 
Sat old Pantaloon, ruling the feast. 

With his arm resting on 

A huge black demijohn 
Made to hold a Norse wassail at least. 

And all this because, 

Amid " storms of applause," 
Little Muggins had, for the first time. 

Faced the dreaded lime-lights, 

In corselet and tights. 
As the " Prince " in the new pantomime. 

Little Muggins ? A chit 
Upon whom they had hit 
Hap-hazard, one night, on the road, 



32 HIGH-DIDDLE-DIDDLE 

And had carried along, 
— As one picks up a song, 
Just to lift the dead-weight off the load, — 

Who had grown up, the child 

Of them all, grown up wild 
In a world which the big world ignores, 

Yet lithe-limb'd, brown of flesh, 

And as straight, strong, and fresh 
As the world — the clean world, out-o'-doors. 

And now the new Star, 

Who will blaze near and far. 
On poster and bill through the town, 

In the plush and the plume 

Of her Prince's costume, 
In the pride of her fledgling renown, 

Drawn up to full height : 

In the leaping fire-light 
One scarlet from tiptoe to throat, 

Yet ashamed, in a way. 

For one shy hand will stray 
In search of the miss'd petticoat. 



HIGH-DIDDLE-DIDDLE 33 

Well may they rejoice, 

Make exceeding great noise, 
Drain the demijohn dry to her fame, 

For in years that have been, 

Never fairer young Queen 
Came to rule the cloud-realms of Boheme. 



THE BEGGARS COME TO TOWN 



^ark ! ^txrk I Itjp bnga ha bark ; 

®I|? bt^nvB nvt rnrntttg tn tntun, 
#nme ttt ragH, anh snm^ in tagn, 

A«Ji finm^ ttt uHurt gnuitt. 



IN tatters and trash, with clatter and crash 
Of cymbals and trumpets and drums, 
The mad cohort of the Miracles-Court, 
A pageant of the slums. 

Filchers and tramps, cripples and scamps, 
The halt and the lame and the blind, 

A motley crew, with a comet-cue 
Of slatterns and brats behind. 

Nimble Joes in yellow hose. 

Blue giants and purple dwarfs, 
Slender lads in crimson plaids, 

And lassies with silver scarfs, 

34 



THE BEGGARS COME TO TOWN 35 

The gypsy scold in cloth of gold 

As black and gnarl'd as Sin, 
The pretty slut with nothing but 

Her shift to hide her skin ; 

And in the core of the mad uproar 

Like a lily, blossoming, 
A beggar maid, yet one array'd 

Past the glory of a king. 

In her tatter'd cloud of a bridal shroud, 

And patches of white Samite, 
With her brown legs bare, her thick black hair, 

And eyes of midsummer night. 

No jewels deck the lithe young neck, 

Her brows are ungirt with gold. 
And yet is there not one more fair 

In all the king's household. 

Well might so be, for this is she 

For whom Cophetua pines, 
Nor finds he grace in court or chase, 

Nor solace in festal wines, 



36 THE BEGGARS COME TO TOWN 

Since first she came in beautiful shame 
To kneel before his throne . . . 

It seemed that earth held nothing worth 
A king — save her alone. 

And now they come, all Beggardom 

In its glory gathering 
From far and wide, to feast the bride 

Elected by the king. 

Let dogs go bark, and simples hark ! 

Sing hail ! with a will and a way, 
For the bride they bring to her lover-king, 

This beggars' holiday. 



BANBURY CROSS 



ONCE on a time a fine Lady rode 
Into the East, when the morning glowed, 
With silver bells at her saddle-cloth. 
And her finger aflash with the ring of troth. 

Into the East, where the morning sings 
While the sea lies sunning her silver wings, 
And the sunbeams dance thro' Banbury town 
Fallen asleep on the gold sea down. 

Ah ! but it was a pleasure to see 
The ride of this Lady of high degree, 
Gems round her girdle, gold over her lap. 
And crimson cock-feathers to plume her cap. 

Maidens of honour, in silken attire — 
Each pink maid shadow'd by scarlet squire — » 
Helmeted knights and velveted clowns. 
Heralds with trumpets and pages with crowns. 



38 BANBURY CROSS 

Fair as Day, when the year is young, 
And blythe as the laugh on a linnet's tongue. 
Went she, red-rose with the joy to come, 
For her lord and lover is coming home ! 

Home from his quest to the Holy Shrine, 
Through the blood and fire of far Palestine, 
Home to the lady who longs for him 
With heart grown hungry and eyes grown dim. 

On through the opening heart of the Spring 
The lady went, with her plighting-ring, 
Till against the film of the purple hills 
Struck sharp old Banbury's gray bastilles. 

Lo ! as they rode into Banbury town, 
A pilgrim lay in his russet gown. 
Like a dog that is let to die in the street — 
And this was the lover she rode to meet. 

Thro' the wax and wane of the changing years, 
A lady rides with wailing and tears, 
A rich-clad lady — a lady mad — 
Singing a song that is wondrous sad : 



BANBURY CROSS 



39 



" Wixht a rork-IinirBP to ^attburg Olrnaa, 
®0 sm a fine SJa&g rili^ on a grag Ijorar, 
JRtnga on Ij^r fiitgrrH anl> Ii?Uh an lypr tn^H, 
An& Bhit BljaU l|ati? mnair mlfer?u?r sljt gn^a." 



BOBBY SHAFTO 



Snbhg #l|afto 'a gane to am ; - 
^tluer bitrklfH an I?ta kn?e — 
i^t 'U tamt bark nwh marry mt, 
frptty lobbg ^I|aftn T 



WITH his treasures won at sea, 
Spanish gold and Portugee, 
And his heart, still fast to me 
Pretty Bobby Shafto ! 

In a captain's pomp and pride, 
With a gold sword at his side, 
He '11 come back to claim his bride, 
Pretty Bobby Shafto ! 

So she sang, the winter long, 
Till the sun came, golden-strong, 
And the blue-birds caught her song : 
All of Bobby Shafto. 



BOBBY SHAFTO 41 

Days went by, and Autumn came, 
Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame, 
But the song, it was the same, 
All of Bobby Shafto. 

Never came across the sea, 
Silver buckles on his knee, 
Bobby to his bride-to-be. 

Fickle Bobby Shafto ! 

For where midnight never dies, 
In the Storm-King's caves of ice, 
Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies — 
Heigho ! Bobby Shafto. 



LITTLE BLUE BETTY 



Slittle Mm ^3? ttg Ixvth in a latt?. 
^ift HolJi gnoii ab tn qtntUmtn, 
(B^ntUmtn ram^ ^utrg &ag, 
Anh UttU ^ltt0 ^ettg Ijnpp'Ji atoag. 



A RARE old tavern, this " Hand and Glove," 
That little Blue Betty was mistress of ; 
But rarer still than its far-famed taps 
Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps. 

So gentlemen came every day — 
As much for the caps as the ale they say — 
And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot : 
If it better'd their thirst they were welcome to 't ; 

For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms 
Which come of inordinate singing of psalms. 
Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale. 
To freshen the lips and smarten the ale. 



LITTLE BLUE BETTY 43 

So gallants came, by the dozen and score, 
To sit on the bench by the trellised door, 
From the full high noon till the shades grew long, 
With their pots of ale, and snatches of song, 

While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts, 
And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts, 
Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence. 
Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence. 

How well I remember ! I used to sit down 
By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown 
Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me, — 
Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be, 

Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug, 
Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug, 
And wheedle and coax my young vanity back. 
So I fancied myself the preferr'd of the pack. 

Ah ! the dear old times ! I turn'd out of my way, 
As I travell'd westward the other day, 
For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine. 
And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign. 



44 LITTLE BLUE BETTY 

The inn was gone — to make room, alas ! 
For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass. 
Where sat a proper young person in pink. 
Selling ale which I had n't the heart to drink. 



TURN, CHEESES, TURN 



(^xttn d}ttBt, gpUom lar^s, 
Mp nnh hamn tijp mnrkH-pinns, 

5I«rn, tifttBts, titrtt t 
Wljf r? tl|e jorang^-lant^nts m^Uam 
ilHonnligljt t^rttn to floHfig a?Uom, 

Mljirrp rrln torrljw burn. 



IN bright scarves and white chemises, 
In the frill'd and flouncy cheeses 
Of the farthingale, 
Turn the Spanish maids and ladies 
On the seaward place of Cadiz 

At the Virgen's sale. 

Such a festival of colour 

Were a thing unknown in duller 

Northern climes of ours ; 
Whitest rose to purplest pansy, 
All the tones that painters fancy, 

Through the scale of flowers, 



46 TURN, CHEESES, TURN 

And against the mat of blossoms, 
Scarlet lips and amber bosoms 

Flit like tempest-lights, 
Till the market's many tables 
Seem a garden from the fables 

Of Arabian nights. 

'T is the night which priestly learning. 
Knowing then all hearts are yearning, 

All forms are fair, 
Consecrates unto the Virgen, 
For all hearts and lips to merge in 

One perfumed prayer. 

And there is a superstition 

That if Hope would have fruition. 

Love-wish come to be, 
One must turn and drop nine '' cheeses : " 
Three for the Father, three for Jesus, 

For the Mother, three. 

On this evening of St. Mary, 
In the market annuary 

Where all flower-kinds join. 



TURN, CHEESES, TURN 47 

Then of garden-girl or grass-man, 
Buy a spotless sprig of jasmine 

With a virgen coin. 

If this sprig with Aves laden, 
Be presented to the Maiden, 

In her chapel niche, 
Love will come : in Knightly armour. 
Or in Court-robes — as the charmer 

Who may call it, wish. 

This is why all maids and ladies, 
On the seaward place of Cadiz, 

Where red torches burn, 
— Green cheese and yellow laces — 
Up and down the market-places. 

Turn cheeses, turn. 



JUMPING JOAN 



l^tttk I iltitk I tijp aih mttrli mnka ! 

all|? fat b^gtttB tn f rg I 
©Ij?r? t0 itnbobg Ijomp but Sumptng Soatt, 

Slumping 3loau auii 3i. 



IT 'S the time when ashen-gray hazes drape 
All form, and deaden all glow, 
The hour when the Earth strips off Harlequin's cape. 
Before putting on domino ; 



i 



When the cupboards and chairs which have stood 
stiff and stark 

In the kitchen, for long hours back, 
Make use of the stillness and fast-coming dark, 

To stretch out their legs and crack ; 

And here, when the pots and kettles all hush, 
While the housewife has gone to milk. 

From behind the charr'd logs that soften to plush, 
And the embers that glossen to silk, 
48 



JUMPING JOAN 49 

With her towzled curls, her arms and legs bare, 
In her old-fashioned smock and mob-cap. 

Jumping Joan hops out of the dim hearth there, 
And scrambles up into my lap. 

And then she will talk You would never believe 

What a witch this Jumping Joan is ! 
What wonderful news she will manage to give, 

What astonishing prophecies ! 

She will tell me the plan of to-morrow's fight. 

My fight for the daily bread. 
She will make me rehearse, till I get them right. 

The things to be done then or said ; 

She will make odd finds in the nooks of my brain : 

Some old memory gone astray — 
The clue to some problem I work'd at in vain — 

Or the rhyme which had dodged me all day ; 

She will bring good news, from the years to come, 
Of the work which to-day seems ajar. 

Or perhaps some love-worded message from 
My dear little girl afar. 



50 JUMPING JOAN 

Yet her ways are so quiet, her voice is so soft, 
That no one can hear her but I ; 

Not even the long-ear'd brass pitchers aloft, 
Or good neighbour Cricket hard-by. 

And so in the darkening, my Joan and I sit, 

Telling stories that never tire. 
Till somebody comes, and the lamp is lit : 

Then Hop ! she jumps into the fire. 



THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL 



Eijint vans an aih moinan Itu^Ji mihtt tijf I|tU, 
AttJ» tf atjf? tint gnn?, bIjp Uupb Hi^rf Btill ; 
SakeJi apjil^a bIj? Boli ani» rraubtrrg pttB, 
Attb Bi|p B tl|f nUi mnrnan tit^n mvtr tolli ItrB. 



A 



QUEER little body, all shrivelled and brown, 
In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd 



gown, 
Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds, 
Like a ricketty cricket, a-saying its beads. 

In winter or summer, come shine or come rain, 
When the bustles and beams into twilight wane, 
To the top of her hill, one can see her climb. 
To sit out her watch through the long night-time. 

The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to 

tell — 
As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well 



52 THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL 

Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill 
When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs 
still. 

She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair 
As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air, 
When under the hill — one fine evening — she met j 
A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet : 

From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red, j 
And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed 
Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand. 
Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland. 

What befell her there no mortal can tell, 
But it must have been things indescribable. 
For when she return'd, at the last, alone. 
Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone. 

They gather'd about her : she shook her head 
— She had been through Hell — that was all she said 
In answer to whens, and hows, and whys ; 
So they took her word, for she never told lies. 



THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL 53 

And now, they say, when the sun goes down 
This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown, 
Turns into a beautiful lass, once more. 
With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes as of yore, 

And out of the hill in the stills and the gloams 

Her beautiful fabulous lover comes, 

In scarlet doublet and red silken hose, 

To woo her again — till the Chanticleer crows. 

And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill 
Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns 

chill. 
And suffers in silence and patience alway, 
In the hope that God will forgive, some day. 



MY LITTLE WIFE 



3 IjiaJi a little mitt, tlje prettiwt svtr sttn, 
^l|e waal|'& all mg htsljf 0, anh ke^jt ttjr Ijouae rUatt ; 
#lj[p bakeli me mg breah, Bl|e brfm'b me mg ale, 
^l|e sat bg t^e fire anJi tnlli a fine tale. 

THE tale of a time that is cloudless noon, 
Made sweet with the smells of the ripening 
June, 
Made tuneful with all the fresh voices of life — 
The tale of our Honeymoon, little wife ! 

When we ramble alone through our dream of dreams 
A tale that is rhythmed with the dance of sunbeams, 
And set to the music of thrushes and brooks, 
There is not such another in all fairy books. 

I 've looked forward to this happy time many years, 
In bright smiling dreams, ay, and sometimes through 

tears, 
Though it has n't come yet, I am certain it will. 
The dear same story thou tellest me still. 

54 



MY LITTLE WIFE 55 

It may be thy story will never come true 
In this world, where the happenings of dreams are few ; 
No matter ! we '11 wait till we 're under the sod, 
There are other worlds after this, thank God 1 

When to each the other is all in all, 
Let betide what will, let what can befall. 
There are not sorrows enough on earth 
To dull love's glamour, or cheapen its worth. 

Meanwhile, we will live, and keep telling our tale, 
Abiding its coming, though all else fail : 
For all things that man can withhold or give 
Must die, but our love is from God : it will live. 

True face ! which I never have look'd on in vain 
When I wanted strength to be patient again. 
Though thy lines grow dim, thy fresh colour dies. 
And twilight has come in the dear, clear eyes, 

Come sit down beside me, and tell me once more 
The tale that has help'd me so often before. 
I am sick of waiting, and hungry to laugh : 
Come ! tell it once more, little photograph ! 



HUMPTY-DUMPTY 



BURN'D and bare, the sands are spread : 
Fire implacable beats overhead, 
Heavens like Hell, and beneath, there lies 
An august head, with blind dreaming eyes. 

Once on a time, was lifted higher 
No kinglier head, from Carthage to Tyre, 
No loftier stature the sun look'd on, 
Not even Rhodes or Singing Memnon. 

^ons sat on his huge calm brows. 
As sparrows perch'd on the pitch of a house, 
Tempests crouch'd at his foot, abash'd 
Like fawning hounds by the master lash'd. 

Far to the edge of the desert's girth 
Stretch'd the shadow of him on the earth, 
Cowering beneath like a thing afraid : 
So was his fame on the vast world laid. 

S6 



HUMPTY-DUMPTY 57 

Nations came from far-away lands, 
Over the deep, and the waste of sands, 
Kissing the footstool his huge feet trod 
To hail him High, Everlasting God. 

Now he lies prone — he is fallen ! Great Pan, 

God of Gods, very Lord of Man, 

A shapeless litter of shatter'd rock 

For newts and lizards to spit at and mock. 

None now come to hail his fame, 
His greatness is gone, forgotten his name. 
Motionless, changeless, unbounded, untrod 
The desert broods o'er the broken God. 

While on so much of its base that stands 
Worn by the tides of men's lips, and the sands, 
This is inscribed, in a cockney's scrawl, 
Last and bloodiest gibe of all : 

^txmpt^-Btm^pt}i ^^i on a Hall. 



LITTLE BOY BLUE 



Utttle ^ng IBluf ! (Hume blnm up go«r Ijortt. 
ullje aljf ep 'a ttt tlje mea&nm. tlje rnm 'a tn ttj? rortt. 
Hljer? IB tlje UttU bog t^nhittg th[t Blj^rp ? 
1^? B xmhn tl|p Ijagrnrk — faat aal^^p I 



FAST asleep ? with the sun noon high ! 
While the bread-getting momen ts go hurrying by, 
Man and beast in the fields at work — 
Does he think him alone privileged to shirk? 

Tending the sheep ! why, the veriest drone 
Could do what little there is to be done : 
Even that little 's too much, so it seems ! 
Plague on all idlers and dreamers of dreams ! 

Half a year's treasure, wrenched from the soil 
By dogged strain of unceasing toil, 
Wantonly wasted, trod down under heel. 
To pay for the sleep of a young ne'er-do-weel ! 

58 



LITTLE BOY BLUE 59 

Labourer ! Labourer ! think, ere you blame 
How often his horn's silver melody came, 
Staying your courage, when courage had flagg'd. 
Lighting the dead heavy burden you dragg'd : 

Where do you think he has found them grow. 
These wonderful songs which have cheer'd you so ? 
Toil as you may, in the sweat of your brow. 
You will find none such, where you delve and plough. 

Farmer ! consider, oh ! you, who begrudge 
That scant broken sleep of your hard-driven drudge, 
All of us have not like tasks to fulfil. 
There are other fields than your own to till ! 

He is of those who have ears to hear 
A higher message than comes to your ear, 
Eyes to see, back of Nature's blind mask, 
The Great Face beckon to holier task. 

He is of them who are called from the throng. 
To work in the fields of immortal song, 
Gleaning a harvest of golden grain. 
Without which we labour and toil but in vain. 



6o LITTLE BOY BLUE 

Somewhere, whither his dreams have led 
Beyond the hills that purple ahead, 
Fields are there to be harvested in 
With the very bread of the soul to win. 

Little Boy Blue ! Go sleep out your sleep, 
Though the cow 's in the corn, in the meadow the 

sheep, 
Better to lose a whole harvest of corn 
Than the tidings born from thy lifted horn. 



MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, AND JOHN 



PHEW ! that night ! what a night it was ! 
Streets like glass — and the air wet gauze ; 
While round corners, half ice, half soot, 
Pounced the wind, like some vicious brute. 

As I pass'd, through the gusts and mists, 
Somewhere — out of sight — fell the hour : 
Twelve, from the chimes in the glum church-tower 
Of the Four Evangelists. 

It was late, and I was sore. 
Hungry, sleepy, and cross as patch, 
When I fancied, near the door, 
Some one sang the olden catch : 

Muttlitm ! Mark I ICukP, mh Sfolin I 
(Buath tl|e b^h lljat J iw an ; 
Wnt to matrlj anil ant to prag, 
Ema to b^ar mg aoul atoag T 



62 MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, AND JOHN 

Was it fancy ? No : it came, 
Poor little squeak of tremulous song, 
Quaking, quavering, stumbing alone, 
Still a real voice, all the same. 

Braced against the storm, I stood 
For a time, to make more sure — 
How the gusts stung ! How they mewed ! 
Nick's own wind God save the poor ! 

Someone there, sure : after a lull, 
There it came again — the dull, 
Wailing prayer, when Hope is gone : 
" Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John." 

Where was Matthew ? Ah ! where Mark, 
Luke, and John ? Did they hear or care 
That some poor soul wept its prayer 
On their doorstep, in the dark ? 

What with preachers all ayelp, 
Grinding chaff into barren grists, 
There 's no spare time left for help 
W'th the Four Evangelists. 



MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, AND JOHN 63 

There was none to hear the call, 
So I started — after all, 
Man must help when saints grow nice : 
Nasty work on stairs of ice 1 

Slipping, scrambling I groped my way, 
Step by step, till I reached the door ; 
There curl'd close upon the floor 
In her rags, a little girl lay. 

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, 
Did you know there was lying there 
One who believed, poor little one, 
Saints inclined their ears to prayer ? 

In my arms I picked her up, 
Poor little frozen gutter-pup ; 
Carried her to the nearest hole — 
Anywhere for soup and coal. 

There we warm'd her, nursed her well, 
I and a red-nosed barkeeper, 
But the song was gone from her : 
Gone, and whither ? Who can tell } 



64 MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, AND JOHN 

Ah ! the vile old lying catch ! 
Mark had pray'd but a lip-deep prayer, 
Matthew had gone to sleep on watch, 
Luke and John, had they been there ? 

Pshaw ! why should I rail upon 
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John ? 
Who were bold enough to say 
She had a soul, to bear away ? 



MARGERY DAW 



^pf-^am T Mnr^nxi Sam t 
^aih iitv bih tn U* upon atram ; 
Waa filjf ttnt a itrtg fiUrt 
®0 at U I|fr bpi, anJi Ituf ttt iirt ? 



AND yet perchance, were the circumstance 
But known, of Margery's grim romance, 
As sacred a veil might cover her then 
As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen. 

It 's a story told so often, so old. 

So drearily common, so wearily cold : 

A man's adventure, — a poor girl's fall — 

And a sinless scapegoat born — that 's all. 

She was simple and young, and the song was sung 
With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue. 
That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song 
Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong. 
6s 



66 MARGERY DAW 

And then : not a word, not a plea for her heard, 
Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd, 
Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn — 
God pity the woman who falls before them ! 

They closed the door for evermore 
On the contrite heart which repented sore. 
And she stood alone, in the outer night, 
To feed her baby as best she might. 

So she sold her bed, for its daily bread, 
The gown off her back, the shawl off her head. 
Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, 
Then she clench'd her teeth and sold herself. 

And so it came that Margery's name 
Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame, 
And Margery's face grew familiar in 
The market-place where they trade in sin. 

What use to dwell on this premature Hell ? 
Suffice it to say the child did well, 
Till one night that Margery prowled the town. 
Sickness was stalking, and struck her down. 



MARGERY DAW 67 

Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast 

In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last, 

Of all she had to be pawned or sold. 

To keep her darling from hunger and cold. 

So the baby pined, till Margery, blind 
With hunger of fever, in body and mind, 
At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand, 
Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand. 

Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw, 
And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw : 
Not a sparrow falls, they say — Oh well ! 
God was not looking when Margery fell. 

With irons girt, in her felon's shirt, 

Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt, 

A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray. 

With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay. 

See-saw ! Margery Daw ! 

What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law ! 

It makes all smooth — for she 's out of her head, 

And her brat is provided for. It 's dead. 



CURLY-LOCKS 



QIurlij-lnrkH I (Curlg-lnrka T litll tl^au b? mint ? 
®I|ou filial! not maalj tlj? italjefi, nor get fe?& tlje simmt -, 
Hut Hit nn a rualjtnn, nnh ztva a fitt? fieam, 
AnJi feeb «}j0n BtxamhtvxxsB, fiwgar, unh rream. 



EVERY day can I see, from my window-seat, 
The queer little cottage across the High-street, 
With its roof, cocked over the round peep-hole 
In a solemn frown, inexpressibly droll. 

And there — through the cobwebs of climbing vine. 
Like a quaint mediaeval medallion-design — 
The turned-up nose and dimpled young chin 
Of Curly-locks, hard at work within. 

Hard at work ! From dawn to dark. 
Her little hand travels its wearisome arc 
From the patient lap, then back again, 
In sameness of toil, that saddens like pain. 

68 



CURLY-LOCKS 69 

And yet, whenever she lifts her eyes, 
Such a spell of youth in her swift glance lies, 
That the lamp-posts wink her a rusty smile, 
The steeple-clock cackles, in joy senile, 

And a smother'd peal of laughter runs rife. 
Through the bald old street's monotonous life : 
The sun shines brightest, the breeze sings best, 
In the sacred circle her eyes have bless'd ; 

And I fall to thinking, watching her sew — 
This dear little girl I have grown to know 
So well, that her hair with its loose sunbeams. 
And her strange eyes haunt me, and sing with my 
dreams — 

To thinking of one who was wont to be 

The shine and shadow of life to me. 

Whose spirit still cleaves to me, beckoning on . . . 

My darling, these many years dead and gone. 

There was the self-same wonderful charm 
In the turn of her neck, the trick of her arm, 
The same magic look in the eyes of her 
Which made all seasons seem Midsummer. 



70 CURLY-LOCKS 

It 's childish perhaps — but I 'm growing old, 
And this huge still house is so barren and cold, 
And peoples so strangely at close of day, 
With sounds of the dead, and smells of the clay. 

That I long for Curly-locks, over the street, 
Long for the patter of quick light feet, 
The ring of her laughter about the place, 
The touch of her hands, the shine of her face, 

And my heart cries out, If she were but near. 
If she could sit down by my arm-chair here, 
I could close my eyes, and fancy then 
My darling come home to the house again. 

Curly-locks ! Curly-locks ! Wilt thou be mine ? 
Bring me thy laughter, thy sweet sunshine : 
I am parch 'd for love, oh ! take pity on 
A poor old woman, whose child is gone. 



THE OLD MAN IN LEATHER 



Wn^ mi0tu mntatg mnrntttg, tuljen rlouJug maa tij? wratljf r, 
3 rl|attr^li to mert an nlJi man rinttyrji all in U^tl}tt ; 
lS(t b^gan In rnrnplunpnt, anJi 31 b^gan tn grin : 
l^nw htx gnn Jin ? anb l^nw hn gnn Iin ? Anh Ijntn hn gnu 
Jin? again. 



A STRANGE old man ! and strangely clad ! 
most strange his mode of greeting ! 
And yet I felt instinctively this was no strangers' 

meeting : 
There was a something once well known, this un- 
known face behind, 
As some old tune, the words of which have fallen 
out of mind. 

He walk'd in silence at my side until we reach'd 

my gateway, 
I turn'd in, paused to nod good-bye : he gravely 

bow'd, and straightway 



72 THE OLD MAN IN LEATHER 

Pass'd on before me to my room, threw wide the 

door, and took 
A seat which fronts the old arm-chair in my 

favourite chimney-nook. 

It had been human to resent his treating me so 

queerly ; 
And yet I felt nor wrath nor pique — a sort of 

wonder merely : 
Where had I seen this face before ? Why should 

he feel at home 
In this, my room ? Who was the man ? Whence ? 

Wherefore had he come ? 

I am not bless'd with many friends, I have nor 
wife, nor daughters, 

Not even sunshine ever comes to cheer my bach- 
elor quarters : 

A poor old bookworm left alone in my sere and 
yellow leaf, 

What have I worth the coming for, to lover, snob, 
or thief ? 



THE OLD MAN IN LEATHER 73 

Besides, this was no common face I saw in my 

new-comer, 
But nobly lined : a face that read like a kingly 

page of Homer ; 
His suit was odd, yet rich withal — gold-figured 

black shagreen, 
The very dress that Shakspere now, or Rabelais 

revels in. 

So while I lean'd back in my chair, my puzzled 

fancy started 
In search of clues, among the dust and drift of 

years departed. 
As he sat silent, with cross'd hands, his eyes held 

fast to mine : 
Grave eyes, that held a world of love, and pity 

almost divine. 

Then from the deep beyond those eyes, that never 

closed or wander'd. 
Rose slowly his identity before me, as I 

ponder'd ; 



74 THE OLD MAN IN LEATHER 

And though he lifted not a hand, and though he 

spake no word, 
With all my soul I knew him then, with every pulse 

I heard. 

This was the guide I followed once, in days long 

unremember'd, 
On land and sea, through solitudes and castles 

many chamber'd, 
Who taught my heart to blossom out, who taught 

my lips to sing. 
Who roused a sleeping god in me : my Prophet — 

Poet — King. 



He told of battles waged and won by deeds of 

marvellous omen. 
Of highest homage earn'd from men, and noblest 

love from women 
Of youth's most radiant promises and wildest 

dreams fulfill'd, 
Just as a child had pictured once, just as a fool 

had will'd. 



THE OLD MAN IN LEATHER 75 

No need was there to tell his name, no need to 
speak his meaning, 

I recognized him through the mists of ages inter- 
vening, 

This was the Ghost which in my dreams the 
Future show'd to me : 

Myself ! that never was ; alas, myself ! that could 
not be. 

And now? the pity of it all ! my hopes, and dreams, 

and longings 
The Future and its righting hand, the Past and all 

its wrongings 
Have left me naked at the last before this Face of 

old, 
To read it as it were a book, a story that is told. 



BAA! BAA! BLACK SHEEP 



l&nn I Saa ! Hark ^l^ttp ! I^au? gnu attg uinal ? 

f ra, ttjat Ijaup J : ttjripp baga full : 

Wnt fat mg mastrr, ottp for ntg ham?, 

®it? for ttjf littlf bog ml|n liufa hamix t^t laite. 



WOOL, that never rams nor ewes 
Bleach'd in sunshine, washed in dews, 
Wool that never, for maid or man, 
Summer shore or Winter span. 

But a fleece that unseen hands 
Gathered in the Fairy lands, 
From the clouds of shadowy sheep 
In the starfields of the Deep ; 

Woven on the loom of night 
Into scarves of scented light, 
Of a woof more fair and frail 
Than October's frosted veil. 
76 



BAAl BAA! BLACK SHEEP 77 

When the West is throbbing yet 
With a memory of Sunset, 
And coy Night attunes her lute, 
Blind sweet bard whose lips are mute. 

Then is set my time to come 

From my kingdom of the gloam, 

Bearing in my three bags full 

Scarves that are spun of the marvel wool, 

One for my master — lying prone, 
Panting for the day's toil done, 
Wet with sweat that halloweth — 
One for my master, black as Death, 

One for my dame, whose wan hands rest 

Cross'd upon her holy breast 

In its mother-fashion bare, 

One for my dame, as white as Prayer ; 

One for my little boy, curled up tight, 
As a flower-bud folds at night. 
Silver scarf with golden seams, 
Arabesqued with scarlet dreams. 



78 BAAI BAA! BLACK SHEEP 

And if God but will it so, 
In the morning when I go, 

I may leave my scarves Ah! then 

Peace at the last will be with men. 



EPILOGUE 

JJZHEN I began this loose handful of rhymes 
I had no other purpose than to vary 
Thy solemn saws and sayings centenary 
With fresher costumes and neiv pa?itomimes, 
Dear Mother Goose I that, as in olden times, 
So now, thou shouldst still be the bounteous fairy 
Who brings rich gifts of mirth — a drone^s vagary, 
As one who sets a wording to the chimes ; 
But as the ivork went on, the purpose heighte7i'd, 
— For verses, like the ivind, bloia where they list — 
// is not thou ivho peerest through the mist 
Of childish dreams, the graying years offf right en'' d 
But one — a mother'' s face — ivith eyes love-lighten^ d. 
Who used to bend above me to be kissed. 



UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 



Reprinted from The Coi-tihill Magazine 
for August, 1909. 



UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 



IN everybody's library, I suppose, there is a certain 
shelf — a cubby -hole — where certain books nes- 
tle. Not great books, epic or epoch-making, hallowed 
by time and hall-marked as standard, but little stray 
volumes, which have come there without letters of 
recommendation, without references, sometimes even 
without merit, but which one prizes, notwithstanding, 
more than all their fellows. Quite simple books they 
often are, and bearing on childhood — books that 
bring back, like the croon of an old song, some face, 
some place, some adventure of the earlier days: 

'T is sometimes pleasant to rehearse, 
When twilight deepens out of day, 

The tinkle of a tiny verse, 
That whiled the noontide hours away. 

'Tis sometimes pleasant to recall, 
The friends of yesterday, to-morrow, 

But that 's a pleasure — if at all — 
That borders very close on sorrow. 

So wrote J. K. Stephen, and, indeed, his own " Lap- 
sus Calami," though more widely known than most of 
its shelf -mates, has an honoured place in my cubby - 

83 



84 "UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 

hole. But there is another book of verse which I 
value more than all the others. " Under a Fool's Cap " 
it is called — there are 139 pages of it, the author is 
Daniel Henry, junior, and it appears to have been 
published in 1884, by Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. 
There my knowledge of its history ends, and no book- 
seller has been able to secure another copy, but as 
nearly everyone browsing amongst my books seems 
sooner or later to single it out, it must have some 
charm of its own to others besides myself. 

The idea and plan of the book are, I think, unique. 
The author has taken twenty -four old, familiar nursery 
rhymes, which are printed in black-letter type at the 
head of the poems relating to them, and he has turned 
them, and moulded them, and amplified them to his 
own ends, whilst always maintaining the metre of the 
original. Although far from being parodies — as a 
matter of fact, they are the very opposite — they might 
well have been written by an older, maturer J. K. S. 
There is the same lightness of touch, the same wistful- 
ness, the same underlying melancholy. As Edmund 
Gosse once said of " Cranford," "there is a smile — 
with a sob in it." 

Daniel Henry, junr., has three methods of dealing 
with his nursery rhymes; he either makes them the 
basis of a story, or he takes them as an allegory and 
gives the " modern instance," or he simply continues 



"UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 85 

and amplifies them. The last method is, perhaps, the 
most effective and successful of all, " My Lady's Gar- 
den " being well-nigh perfect. First, in its black-letter 
type, comes the old twice-put question, with the old 
cryptic answer : 

How does my Lady's garden grow? 
How does my Lady's garden grow ? 
With silver bells, and cockle-shells, 
And pretty girls all in a row. 

And then we learn the task of my Lady's '* girls ; " 
how, during the long summer's day, they swing in the 
breeze like marguerites, and how, with night, comes 
the hour of their magic toil, when — 

They spread their faint green wings abroad, 
Their wings and clinging robes abroad, 
And upward through the pathless blue 
They soar, like incense smoke, to God, 

Who gives them crystal dreams to hold, 
And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold, 
And laughter spun of beams of the sun, 
And tears that shine like molten gold. 

And when their hands can hold no more, 
Their chaliced hands can hold no more, 
And when their bells, and cockle-shells, 
With holy gifts are brimming o'er, 



86 "UNDER A FOOL'S CAP 



With swift glad wings they cleave the deep, 
As shafts of starlight cleave the deep, 
Through Space and Night they take their flight 
To where my Lady lies asleep ; 

And there the maidens coil in a fairy crown above her 
bed and sprinkle her with their gifts. And that is the 
task of the pretty girls with their silver bells and 
cockle-shells, who grow like marguerites, and that 
is how the garden grows, and that is how my 
Lady herself grows — grows in such sorcery that, 
at her touch, sweet laughter blossoms, and songs 
unclose. 

The whole poem is one of exquisite fancy, and the 
thirteen verses of it are all beautifully wrought and 
without flaw. A dozen other poems follow in the 
same vein, each one woven from some little clues in 
the rhyme -text above it. We sit with King Cole, as 
he fills his pipe and goblet, and we listen to his fid- 
dlers as they play to him the burdens of Long-ago. 
We follow him back to the great, grim hall where, 
on lifted shield, a child was hailed as king; to the 
postern gate where a lover kept his tryst; to the pag- 
eant where a maid became a queen. We follow him 
till the last of the songs is told, till the ash of his pipe 
is whitened, and the beaker drops from his grasp, and 
the dreams sink back, with old King Cole himself, 
into the night. 



"UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 87 

We learn why Burnie Bee was warned, and why 
Bobby Shafto did not come back from the sea. We 
welcome Daffy-down-dilly when she brings April with 
her, and we would fain welcome Curly-locks, too. We 
are even introduced to Jumping Joan, and recognize 
her, with Mr. Daniel Henry as the Master of Cere- 
monies, for an old friend, though I must confess that, 
hitherto, she had always baffled me. I used to wonder 
if she was any relation to the Jump-to -Glory Jane of 
Mr. Meredith. The rhyme was always so mysterious 
and yet seemed to mean so much : 

Hink ! Mink ! the old witch winks ! . 

The fat begins to fry ! 
There is nobody home but Jumping Joan, 

Jumping Joan and I. 

And then Mr. Henry comes along, and peers behind 
the charred logs of my fire as they soften to plush, and 
gives a gentle call, and lol out hops Jumping Joan 
and scrambles into my lap. And then what talks we 
have, and what old memories we gather in, and what 
odd nooks she finds in my brain ! And her voice is so 
low, that no one but I can hear her. And now, in the 
darkening we sit, for all the world as if I had never 
forgotten her, till somebody comes with a lamp and 
then Hop ! and she is back in the fire. 



88 "UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 

Then, later, when the lamp too has burnt low, comes 
wee Willy Winkle, a strange visitor surely, for he is 
garbed in his night-gown and runs through the house, 
upstairs and down, without so much as saying, " By 
your leave I " But Willy Winkie is a busy little man 
and much -to-be-forgiven ; there are little bald heads to 
trim, and little mouths to fill with pearls, and many 
general repairs besides. There are little pupils to be 
taught — how to crow for toys, for instance, and how 
to clutch at pleasant beards. And there are reports to 
be received from baby friends, and if, when he hears 
them, he learns that baby isn't faring well. Presto! 
Winkie just stoops down, picks up baby and away — 
some think it dead — but Winkie knows better. He 
has made for some bleak home, unblessed by any 
baby, and on the morrow there is much to-do about 
baby, newborn. So he runs, upstairs and down, till 
daylight comes, when he throws wide the shutters, 
and, with a " Goodnight, Watchman," flies off to blow 
out the stars. 

We are taught, too, why cheeses must be turned 
and why Little Boy Blue must sleep out his sleep 
beneath the haycock, though the cow 's in the corn 
and the sheep 's in the meadow. For Little Boy Blue 
is a dreamer of dreams, and the slumber that caused 
such havoc in the grain is but a low price, after all, for 
the silver melody of his horn. 



"UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 89 

The last of this group of poems is *' Bell Horses." I 
had quite forgotten the old rhyme, till I met it again 
here: 

Bell horses, Bell horses, 

What time of day ? 
— One o'clock ! Two o'clock ! 

Three ! and away. 

The verses to this are the simplest and most unpre- 
tentious in the whole volume, but there is a gallop to 
them, and a pretty old-fashioned sentiment as well. 
The Bell horses are taking the scarlet mail-cart to 
London, bearing, perhaps, great news of State, 

Up the hills, down the hills. 
Till the cart shrink 
To a faint dab of paint 
On the sky-brink. 

But down in the keep of their mail-cart lies a tiny love- 
note, ill -spelt and badly written, stiff of hand and 
thought, with the kisses marked by ink -blots, a note 
which to-night a lover will read and understand, and 
to-morrow, perhaps will answer. Till then, till the 
chime of the Bell horses rings out again, the hours 
will pass but slowly. 

Here Mr. Henry resigns his fancy's freedom, he no 
longer allows his pen to carry him where it listeth, but 
sets out to weave a definite story out of the rhyme 



90 "UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 

before him. Up to now he has been as a child with a 
piece of quicksilver, taking his rhyme, breaking it into 
a thousand sparkling pieces, running it up and down 
the surface of his imagination with many a dart and 
cantrip of whimsical fancy, toying with it, spreading it, 
giving it rein, but always bringing it back in the end 
to the same illusive, fugitive little morsel he began 
with. Now he has sterner work. There are stories, 
aye, and tragedies too, lurking behind the innocent 
catches, and Mr. Henry sets out to tell them with all 
the fire of the " serious " Hood. My edition of Hood, 
I must explain, is in two volumes, " serious " and 
" comic " and the arbitrary partition occasionally shows 
unfortunate results, but none the less we know that 
Hood could be very grave and grim when he chose, 
and so can Mr. Henry. His poem on Margery Daw, 
for instance, is every bit as haunting as " The Bridge 
of Sighs " or " The Song of the Shirt :" 

See-Saw ! Margery Daw ! 
Sold her bed to lie upon straw ; 
Was she not a dirty slut 
To sell her bed, and live in dirt ? 

There is the raw material, there is the question to be 
answered, and Mr. Henry answers it for us. Why did 
she sell her bed? Because Margery had been playing 
at see-saw on the tree of knowledge and she had fallen. 



"UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 91 

and now there was another life to consider. So Mar- 
gery not only sold her bed, but " the gown off her back, 
the shawl off her head," and thus she fed her brat. 

Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, 
Then she clench'd her teeth and sold herself. 

Poor Margery ! 

Not a sparrow falls, they say — Oh well ! 
God was not looking when Margery fell. 

It is not a pretty poem, perhaps, any more than " The 
Song of the Shirt" is pretty, but, on the other hand, 
Margery Daw is not the daintiest of nursery rhymes. 
It will be noticed that, for once, the original metre is 
abandoned. There is a similar story in " Matthew, 
Mark, Luke, and John" only the subject of it is a 
child-waif of the streets. But perhaps the best written 
poem in the book is " The Old Woman under the 
Hill." Once, we are told, she was beautiful, as beau- 
tiful as Marguerite, till the same fate befell her and 
the same wooer came to her and led her to Shadow - 
land, where she lost both her youth and her beauty. 
And now she is just 

A queer little body, all shrivelled and bro^\^l, 
In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour 'd gown, 
Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds, 
Like a ricketty cricket, a-saying its beads. 



92 "UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 

And then there is the story of the Beggars who 
Came to Town, to hail King Cophetua and his bride; 
the story of the Cat and the Fiddle, and what befell 
them in the mummer's tent ; and the story of the Fine 
Lady, who rode to Banbury Cross, and what she found 
there. Lastly, there is the story of Little Blue Betty — 
you know the rhyme — 

Little Blue Betty lived in a lane, 
She sold good ale to gentlemen. 
Gentlemen came every day, 
And little Blue Betty hopp'd away. 

Well, Betty, so it appears, not only distributed ale to 
the gentlemen, but gave them all kisses as well, 

For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms 
Which come of inordinate singing of psalms, 
Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale. 
To freshen the lips and smarten the ale. 

So Mr. Daniel Henry, very junior then, used to sit by 
the door of the inn, jealous as only a calf -lover can be, 
a " Byronic, elaborate frown" on his face, till Betty 
brought him his favourite mug and wheedled back his 
young vanity. Perhaps it was to Betty that he wrote 
his first verses ? But that was years ago, and when 
one day he returned to give a friendly nod to the old 
sign — 



UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 93 



The inn was gone — to make room, alas ! 
For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass, 
Where sat a proper young person in pink, 
Selling ale which I had n't the heart to drink. 

The remaining rhymes are treated allegorically, the 
most striking of them being '* Humpty-Dumpty " and 
" The Old Man in Leather." Humpty-Dumpty is no 
less a person than the Sphinx : 

^ons sat on his huge calm brows, 
As sparrows perch'd on the pitch of a house, 
Tempests crouch'd at his foot, abash 'd 
Like fawning hounds by the master lash'd. 

But now no nations come to hail him ; his greatness 
has gone for ever. 

While on so much of its base that stands 
Worn by the tides of men's lips, and the sands. 
This is inscribed, in a cockney's scrawl. 
Last and bloodiest gibe of all : 

Humpty-Dumpty sat on a Wall. 

" The Old Man in Leather" is not only the longest 
but the subtlest poem in the whole collection. Even 
the rhyme that heads it has an esoteric flavour: 

One misty moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, 

I chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather ; 

He began to compliment, and I began to grin : 

How do you do ? and How do you do ? And how do you do ? again. 



94 "UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 

A strange old man surely, but I think I have met him 
before. In " Nature's Vagabond," a cousin to the 
" Book of Paragot the Beloved," Mr. Cosmo Hamil- 
ton has given us Billy Rudd. Billy Rudd, it will be 
remembered, was going to write a great History, so he 
took a little cottage in the country, and bought ten 
mighty manuscript volumes, and on the first page of 
the first volume he wrote chapter one. But fishing 
and sleeping was easier work, so he fished and slept, 
and backed horses till money failed him, so that the 
History was never written. And "The Old Man in 
Leather" is just another calf-bound volume like " Billy 
Rudd's," the book of the plans and the dreams of our 
lives, with chapter one written in copperplate at the 
beginning, and the rest a desert of empty pages. And, 
sometimes, when the day is cloudy with us, he will 
jump out with his everlasting " How do you do?" till 
we put him away on the topmost shelf again. 

That is the last of the nursery rhymes, and as I read 
them all again — I am sure that Daniel Henry, junr., 
would understand me — I think of an old bachelor, 
fingering some old toys, the flotsam and jetsam of a 
playroom. A rocking-horse, perhaps, or some tin 
soldiers or a box of bricks, forsaken years ago, but 
what a world of dreams went with them! What jour- 
neys were to be accomplished on the back of that 
horse ! What fights were to be won at the head of 



"UNDER A FOOL'S CAP" 95 

those soldiers ! What castles were to be built with 
that boxful of bricks ! 

Violet 's blue— Diddle, diddle ! 

Lavender's green, 
When I am king — Diddle, diddle ! 

You shall be queen. 

In good truth, a smile — with a sob in it. 

NORMAN ROE, 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 



I 

Under a Fool's Cap /Songs /by /Daniel 
Henry, Jun. / London / Kegan Paul, 
Trench and Co./mdccclxxxiiil 

Printed on Van Gelder hand -made paper. 
i2mo. Pp. vi+i-144, smooth grey cloth, 
gilt top. This edition did not exceed 500 
copies. 

II 

^A Pedlar's Pack / by / Daniel Henry 
Holmes /[device in tint] / New York/ 
Ernest Dressel North /mcmvl 

250 copies on Italian hand -made paper. 
i2mo. Pp. xii+i-146. Decorated half-vellum 
grey boards. 

Ill 
Hempen Home-spun/Songs/by/Daniel 
Henry Holmes / [Latin Motto] / The / 
Geo. B. Jennings Co. / Publishers/ 105- 
107 West 4th St. / Cincinnati, Ohio/ 

MCMVI. 

Quarto, gilt, decorated wrapper. Contains 
fourteen Songs set to music of which four 
have words by Mr. Holmes. 

99 



HERE ENDS UNDER A FOOL'S CAP: 
SONGS BY DANIEL HENRY HOLMES 
PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER 
AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT XLV EX- 
CHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE 
IN THE MONTH O F OCTOBER A D 
MDCCCCX 




L6ftp':9 



l.B^p•:g 



